I may be a little giddy with excitement: I’ve always wanted my own Malteser factory. I mean, I’ve always wanted to put the Hub away. No, no, I mean, my first poetry collection is coming out in the summer.

Here’s my publisher’s website. They are based in Marple and have been going for about twenty years.

Like this:

I’m not in the mood (or the position) to make retailers rich today, but I am in the mood to make you laugh, and laughter is the greatest gift, so it’s a win for you, a win for me, and a win for my pocket. Assuming, of course, that my story, originally posted in 2012, amuses you.

A story of true love, it begins at Christmas…

Dear Judge,

I know I killed my True Love in a fit of rage but I think, once you hear my tale, you will have to acknowledge that I was provoked beyond what any reasonable person could stand.

Things started off well. On the first day of Christmas, my True Love sent me a partridge in a pear tree. A little weird, I thought, but I let it pass. To be honest, as the first day of Christmas is Christmas Day, I’d have preferred a turkey.

On the second day he sent me two turtle doves. Romantic, because I believe they mate for life, so I could see the symbolism. But he also sent me another partridge in a pear tree. What was that about?

Next day it was three French hens – or should I say, trois French hens? My little joke, Judge. I still had a sense of humour at that point. Plus two more doves and another partridge in a pear tree.

On the fourth day I was afraid to open the door to the postman. I was right to be afraid: ten birds arrived that morning, four of which were colly birds. Is there anyone on the planet who knows what a colly bird is? I think my True Love made that one up, or he ordered calling birds, but the shop saw a chance to finally offload the 36 colly birds they had lying around in the storeroom which they had ordered by accident.

Probably guessing from my enraged texts and emails that by now I was a little miffed, he had the good sense to send me five gold rings on day five of Christmasgate. I was mollified enough to think it would be okay to accept day six’s gift. Boy, was I ever wrong! Six – count them: one-two-three-four-five-SIX – geese-a-laying. The eggs would have been acceptable but I couldn’t get near them. Do you know how protective geese are of their eggs? I still have the bill marks on my legs. And it’s not nice to be hissed at by 42 geese (yes, 42; because he sent me six more geese who wouldn’t share, every day for the next six days). It’s like I’m living in a really bad pantomime in the comfort of my own home – though there’s not much comfort to be had with 184 birds running around, making a racket and pooping like there’s no tomorrow. Which there wasn’t for those I managed to store in my freezer… Not to mention the 42 goslings under my feet, imprinting on me. It made shopping impossible.

And yes, you did read that right, Judge: 184 birds in total is what my True Love sent to me. 226, if you count the inevitable babies.

But he saved the best for last, which I’ll call Day Seven, because it was. I may have been a little unhinged by this point. I refused to open the door so the delivery truck left my idiot boyfriend’s ridiculous idea of a love token in my tiny back garden: seven swans-a-swimming. Seven swans-a-swimming! You know what that means, don’t you? An inflatable pool! In my pocket garden! And not just one inflatable pool, oh no! SIX inflatable pools, because he sent me the same gift for the next five days, along with eight maids-a-milking, nine ladies dancing (I don’t even watch Strictly), ten lords-a-leaping (I’m interested in politics, yes, but not to the point of inviting the second chamber into my home – and the ornaments those old codgers broke…), eleven pipers piping, and twelve drummers drumming, right through my skull.

By the time I got the injunction against my True Love, it was too late – the neighbours had complained about the smell, the illegal poultry farm I had set up, and the music played at full volume at all hours of the day and night. I was evicted by the council for antisocial behaviour. I was homeless, penniless (having spent all my money on bird seed and feeding guests) and furious – mostly because all swans are owned by the Crown, so my True Love had scuppered the chance of me ever appearing on any future Honours List.

I admit to seeking out my True Love who, while big on romantic gestures, was a slacker when it came to paying for the upkeep of all those birds or feeding 140 people – though I’ll accept, the poultry and the eighty buckets of milk did come in handy there.

I also admit to pelting him with rock hard pears (they were out of season; what was the silly beggar thinking?) and, when that didn’t work, belting him with as many pipes, drums and drumsticks as I could lay my hands on. But the death stroke was, I’m convinced, administered by the swans, who didn’t like it when, weighed down by 40 gold rings, I fell into one of their pools and almost drowned whilst trying to pry the human leech off me. I did manage to escape though he, sadly, did not. All was not lost however – the sale of the forty rings to Gold ‘R ‘ Us paid for his funeral, and the cortege, comprised of my personal aviary, attracted media attention and led to my new career in reality TV, specifically, Come Dine With Me (which I won, thanks to some exotic poultry dishes), How Clean Is Your House? (not very, as it happens), and Farmer Wants A Wife.

So, dear Judge, I think you can see that I acted under extreme provocation while the balance of my mind was disturbed and my feet were in three tons of guano.

If you let me off, I will be free to marry one of the drummers, Bill, who has promised to give me only chocolates, toiletries and DVDs as Christmas presents.

Like this:

Taking an inadvertent blogging break due to all of the studying I’m doing, I came across a post I wrote (hey, poets need downtime, too, you know), about a deliberate blogging break I took in 2013:

When I have time on my hands like this, I start thinking about myself. Always a mistake. Last time I had nothing to do, I set a few rules and general guidelines to make Tilly Bud Tilly Blooming Lovely, Inside And Out. Tilly Blooming Lovely IAO is, I am sure, well-groomed, relaxed, affable, clean, and at peace with herself. Everyone will love her. Tilly Bud: The Menopause Years, not so much.

Forgive the use of an old photo; I wanted to look my best for you.

The Rules:

Presentation:

Tilly Bud shall forthwith cease and desist speaking of herself in the third person.

I’ll stop the pompous balderdash as well.

I will address the next lot of rules to ‘you’ because the use of first person negates the funny. Take it as read that ‘you’ is ‘me’.

Diet:

When you eat the last Malteser, don’t open another box for at least an hour.

Stop eating: you cannot starve to death in a morning.

Exercise is not the enemy. Dance, be a flibbertigibbet, chase the Hub around the house.

Galaxy Bubbles are not an acceptable substitute for Maltesers. Nor are Galaxy Bars, Galaxy Ripples or Galaxy Minstrels.

They can, however, be enjoyed as a side dish.

Home:

Never miss an opportunity to clean.

The synchronicity of a dust bunny behind the couch and a vacuum cleaner in your hand should never be overlooked.

Computer:

Nothing bad will happen if you stay offline for ten minutes.

If your hand resembles a claw, put down the mouse and step away from the laptop.

Family:

It’s okay to be nice to the Hub.

Really.

Just because your child didn’t call doesn’t mean A) you are a bad mother or B) he doesn’t love you. It means he’s a bad son who doesn’t appreciate your stretch marks.

Dogs are not substitute children.

Blog:

It’s okay to be nice about the Hub.

Really.

Serendipity gave him to you; keep him sweet by throwing out the occasional compliment.

General:

Stupid is as stupid does: pick a side.

Life is like a box of chocolates: you can be a soft centre and a nut.

Really.

Forrest Gump is not the Oracle. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Never miss an opportunity to laugh (the first point under ‘Home’ refers)

This post first appeared five years ago. Tilly Bud has since learned that the rules only work if you adhere to them.

Like this:

Hello, dear reader! (I’m assuming I only have one left now, so long have I been gone). I’ve been busy since September and here’s an article I wrote, first published in October on the Write Out Loud website, to explain why:

My student ID pic

Since graduating with a BA in literature in 2008, it has been my dream to complete an MA in creative writing; specifically, poetry. I knew I needed to mature as a writer, and that happened to coincide with having no money. I was able to apply to Manchester Metropolitan University this summer, however, because a couple of years ago the government introduced student loans for a second degree.

Reader, I was accepted. I was overjoyed, particularly as the news came at the end of Freshers Week, when I was wondering why I hadn’t yet received my rejection email.

A welcome email arrived on the Thursday, from the writing school’s manager; followed by the offer email on Friday, around five pm. I was excited and panicked at the same time: I have to apply for student finance? (You certainly do!) When do I start? (Monday?!). Will I be allowed to attend class if my finance isn’t in place? (Yes). Where do I go? (The old Cornerhouse). What do I do? (Not panic…oops, too late).

My first degree was with the Open University so I was excited to go to a “real” i.e. brick university but, oh, how at first I wish I hadn’t bothered. Two weeks in and it was all YOU OWE US MONEY GIVE US MONEY YOU WILL BE SANCTIONED IF YOU DON’T PAY THE MONEY SHOW US THE MONEY.

I understand that education is big business these days, but please, MMU, don’t invite me at the last minute so that I miss out on the helpful information; leave me to flounder; and then nag me to the death of joy. Truthfully, at this stage I’d be happier with my notebook and pen and just the one degree, thank you very much.

From the ridiculous to the sublime: three weeks in, the course is fabulous. It is challenging and difficult and I am surrounded by so much talent I can’t help feeling they made a mistake when they sent out the offer letter. But you’d have to pry it from my cold, dead Gmail account first.

You know you’ve never had it so good when one of your professors is Michael Symmons Roberts and the other is Carol Ann Duffy. And when the poet laureate hands out free books, takes you across the road to the pub and buys you a drink and, when you ask for some advice says, “That’s what I’m here for,” you know you’ll say: “Here’s the money! I had to sell my children to get it, but it is totally worth it!”

Excited? Yes. Terrified? Yes. Fed up with officialdom? Always. Would I want to be anywhere else? What do you think?

Like this:

A full English breakfast with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, and half a tomato (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve been absent for a month because things changed fast around here. When I get a spare five minutes, I’ll tell you about it (and reply to your comments). In the meantime, here’s a post that first appeared in 2012.

Saturday. The scene: dinner time in the Bud House.

Spud: What’s for dinner?

Tilly: Bacon eggs pork sausages beans tomatoes leftover potato croquettes I found in the bottom of the freezer from when the kids were here in August because I’ve run out of hash browns and bread to soak it all up.

Spud: Bacon? But we had gammon yesterday. Why are we having what is effectively the same meat again?

Tilly [Not bothering to put up a fight she knows she’ll lose]: Fine. What do you want instead?

Spud: Sandwiches. Got any ham?

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Sunday. The scene: dinner time in the Bud House.

Spud: What’s for dinner?

Tilly: Bacon eggs sausage beans tomatoes leftover potato croquettes I found in the bottom of the freezer from when the kids were here in August because I’ve run out of hash browns and bread to soak it all up.

Spud: Do I have to have bacon? I had ham yesterday and gammon the day before.

Like this:

This is a slightly edited repost from 2013, but I’m out of ideas so I thought I’d share it again. It contains some good advice for new bloggers.

Let’s start with a poem I wrote some years ago:

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The Thing About Poetry Is

Titles are vital

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The same is true of blog posts. Titles are vital to lure unsuspecting readers to your blog, where you will dazzle them with your wit and wisdom and encourage them to waste time they could have used for eating, watching TV, and sitting on the couch.

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How Not To Write A Post Title

From my blog:

Joke 648

Unless you are looking for 648 jokes, it’s rather dull. However, it does tell you exactly what you will find: a joke; the 648th joke in a long line of jokes.

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Be Specific

The Value Of A Good Blog Title

is not particularly interesting but it will attract people looking to improve their blogging. I know this because

Seven Tips For New Bloggers

still attracts readers, years after being posted. List titles like this are also popular, for reasons I’m sure psychologists could tell you, though I can’t.

A word of caution, however: don’t be tempted to make it 147 Tips For New Bloggers, because nobody’s attention span is that long. I know this from experience.

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Be Topical

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

Posted in December, it’s seasonal and likely to attract Christmas fanatics like me. In November, it makes me the blogger who’s ahead of the game; in June, it makes me quirky and will, hopefully, make the reader curious. But beware: posted in January, it’s the blogging equivalent of the guest who won’t leave when the party’s over.

Sometimes, being topical leads to dumb luck:

Some Snow Facts

A fun factual post a year earlier led to my best-ever day – 4,720 hits – when Google Doodle celebrated the 125th anniversary of the discovery of the World’s Largest Snowflake. I’d have been happier if just one of those people looking for the Google Doodle had left a comment but, hey, I’m not one to look a gift spike in the mouth.

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Reference Popular Culture

Here are some posts of mine which still receive hits:

Twilight: I Hope Bella Remembered To Shave

Seven Of Nine, And Not In A Good Way

Robert Pattinson With Small Hairs

Being up to date with the news helps:

What Really Happened To Gaddafi

brought in hundreds of people who thought a housewife in Stockport could tell them what 24-hour news channels and thousands of dedicated reporters could not.

Adding the word ‘Review’ to a title is another good way to attract readers. However:

It irritates them if you use the word ‘Review’ and then don’t review whatever it is you claim to be reviewing. I know this from experience.

Reviewing books and movies four years after they’ve been released is unlikely to make your post a bestseller (I was surprised to discover).

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Use Keywords And Phrases

Here are some posts that still receive hits. One was written six years ago:

You’re Only As Old As The Woman You Feel – old jokes and clichéd phrases are popular searches as ageing people begin to lose their memories (I know this from experience).

Smile And The World Smiles With You – the word ‘smile’ is the top search that finds this blog, with over 10,000 visits.

A Is For ‘Arguments’ – the key word here is ‘A’. Bizarrely, the letter ‘a’ comes in at Number 7 on my search list, with 1,044 hits.

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Sweaty Armpits (Photo credit: mricon)

Have Fun!

After all, if you’re not trying to change the world, it doesn’t matter who reads your blog so long as you are enjoying yourself.

Here are some of my favourite titles from posts that I have written:

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Famous With Sweaty Armpits

Okay, Tesco: I Forgive You

So Many Jokes, So Little ClassI like this one for its searing honesty.

If I Break Wind, I’ll Write About It The previous title refers.

I Have To Kill My Kindle

Love Many, Trust Few And A Canoe

I’m Three Mugs Of Tea Away From Becoming A Feminist

It’s Time To Give Up FoodI like this one for its absurd premise.

Ten Don’ts For When I’m Dead Another list post.

Bring In Arms Fat Mummy

Hula Hoops. Very Proud Of The Queen. I can’t claim credit for this one as it was from a comment by another blogger.

Vasectomy Dog And A Frog Disease Called Awesome

Camping: The Art Of Staying Wet Indoors

Flying To Spain In A Manky Cardi

A Labled Easy To Follow Leg

Sandra Bullock Has A Sex Change And Retires To Norfolk

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A Final Tip

Related to blogging but not to titles in particular: ask an open-ended question. A question as title will pull in the curious and the opinionated (I know this from experience). You don’t have to use it as a title, however; you can use it as a closing sentence. It never fails (I know this from experience).

Like this:

When we were kids, my brother owned a copy of The Book of Narrow Escapes. Aimed at children, it was full of stories about people who survived experiences like falling out of planes (as you do), or getting lost in the Amazon: always follow a river downstream to civilization was the advice, though how a child – or this adult – knows the difference between upstream and downstream escapes me, and not narrowly, either. Come to think of it, I’m not sure that book, full of horror stories along the lines of Alive! was suitable reading for kids. Unless I’m thinking like a be-fair-everyone-has-to-come-first-and-be-safe millennial. Or a mum.

This morning, I was humming the tune to the seventies’ show Black Beauty because of a Facebook meme I’d seen, and that got me thinking that I read Black Beauty as a child and found it tedious, but loved The Book of Narrow Escapes – me, who never took a risk in her life unless it involved eating my weight in chocolate and thus the possibility of an obese, diabetic future.

As I was on the loo while all of this thinking was happening, that naturally reminded me of my own narrow escape, about twenty years ago: I went to the loo one day, finished, stood, turned around, and there were two wasps, flying around the neck of the bowl! Talk about a squeaky bum moment. To this day, I can’t sit on the loo without first inspecting it. Thoroughly. So if I visit your house and you catch me at it 1) I’m looking for stinging insects, not dirt and 2) why are you in the bathroom with me?

This Is Me:

I am a little fat. I like food; what can I say? I have dull hair: mousey. I don’t wear much make-up and have no need of a dressing table. If I look like a bag lady, I chose my own clothes. If I look nice, the Hub picked them for me. Despite all this, I am a little vain. This photograph is from 2003. I had to go back that far to find one of me that I liked. But I don’t really care: my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and if he doesn’t, he loves me enough to lie about it. I’m lucky. I have two boys. They never lie to me. Still, you can't have everything.

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